


When I Come Around

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flowers, Grief/Mourning, Heaven, Hopeful Ending, Inspired by Music, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Season/Series 10, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Castiel gives up his grace, Dean's left to deal in his own way. Until Valentine's Day the following year when he recieves a bouquet of roses and a letter from the beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Come Around

It’s not the anniversary that hurts him the most – it’s the few days after, when he remembers just what they would have been doing together that tears him down to the core. He stays in his room on self-imposed exile while Sam putters around the bunker, acting like his brother isn’t drinking himself into a coma. But he makes it through. He survives the first anniversary in a drunken stupor. Apparently he said some things; Sam won’t exactly look him in the eye for the first few days after.

They hunt. They drink, eat, shoot the breeze when they have downtime the year before. Sam talks about quitting the life. After all, Dean is human again, the Mark a forgotten memory in their entire catalogue of things-to-repress. They have every right to, Dean knows. Maybe they could move back to Lawrence and start over, go legit. Get a couple credit cards with his real name on them, buy a house in the city. Sam could go finish his degree and become the big shot he always wanted to be, solve the world’s problems. And the sad thing is, it’s not even a dream anymore – it’s attainable.

Which is why he finally lets Sam go. He drives him to the Amtrak station in Lawrence and sends him on his way to the land of sun and sand, and heads back to the bunker to wallow in his own misery. He’s finally alone, and it hurts more than he thought it would.

A few days after, he spends the morning in the library looking at real estate listings in Lawrence before he hears a knock at the door. Unless Sam has come back or some monster figured out where he was, no one should even know where he lives. Outside the vault door, a young boy stands with a large bag slung over his shoulder, hair a complete mess in the snow, and a bouquet of blue roses in his hands. “Are you Dean Winchester?” he asks, looking eerily frightened. Dean nods. “I’m sorry I got these to you so late, we had trouble finding you.” He hands over the flowers and a white envelope, turning to walk back to the late model Taurus parked out front.

He doesn't give any parting words, only gets back in his car and drives off. Dean stares at the flowers, bewildered – who in their right mind sent him _roses_? Who does he know that's even alive and would care? He turns the card over, and promptly drops the arrangement to his feet, hands shaking in near violent jerks.

Written in a terrible scrawl are three letters – _Cas_.

It takes him another minute of staring and dry heaving to bend down and pick up the roses, taking them inside and rushing to shut the door behind him. They scatter on one of the library’s tables where they drop unceremoniously, his mind only concentrated on one thing – getting the damn envelope open. Inside, a letter and a small bird’s feather fall out, the paper dyed the same shade as the other, a brilliantly light blue. His eyes sting.

He sits and stares at the sheet for a long while, one hand stroking over the soft petal of a rose while his mind attempts to reset. Okay. Castiel sent him a letter. _Castiel_ sent him a letter and roses a year after he handed his grace over. His brain can’t wrap around it. Instead, with shivering hands he slips the paper open, and begins to read.

> _Dean_
> 
> _By the time you’re reading this, I’ll have passed on and it will hopefully be Valentine's Day. I’m not sure if the man at the shop understood my wishes, so it may be late. I want you to know I’m truly sorry for how the events have turned out, and I apologize if I’ve left you alone. I wish it could have played out differently._
> 
> _For the next ten years, you’ll receive a flower arrangement and a letter. I’m assured this is what people do for those they care about on Valentine's Day. If not, you’re allowed to throw it all out and forget I said anything. I want you to know that even if I’m not with you physically, I’m still watching over you, wherever I am. ~~Please don’t look for me.~~_
> 
> _I’m not sure if you’re still living in the bunker, but if you are, please look in box C257 and behind your dresser, and put the flowers in a vase._
> 
> _Please hold on until next year._
> 
> _Castiel_

His face is wet by the time he finishes reading, the letter lying flat on the table, stained with tears and probably snot. It’s all coming back to him, memories he thought he had forgotten. The feel of warm skin going cold, brilliant blues dying to pale grays, lips going slack. He bites his knuckle to keep from screaming, from punching a hole in the nearest surface. Because he thought he was over it, he thought Castiel was dead and gone and he could move on with his life. But even in death, he’s still there, speaking to him, plain as day.

And it _hurts_ , now more than ever.

He should throw them away, burn them in the backyard and pretend it never happened. But they were from Castiel, and Castiel took his time to spell out exactly what he wanted and when, all down to the minute. He wipes his eyes and looks around the kitchen for something he can put the flowers in, at least until he can find a suitable vase. He finds a bottle of wine and dumps it down the sink and rinses it out, pretends he doesn't remember what it was for. A few of the stalks fit just fine; he plucks the petals off the other three and places them in a bowl of water, sets them in the library and lets them float.

It’s sentimental – he hates it. Hates that he has to remember, hates that he can’t forget.

He remembers the letter the following day, recalls the specific instructions Castiel gave. In the storage rooms he finds box C257, filled to the brim in what look to be notebooks and bottles of undetermined liquids. What is he supposed to be looking for? “For a dead guy, you’re sure not helpful,” he mutters under his breath, and begins to dig.

At the bottom, he pulls out a folder labeled in that familiar scrawl, the same shade of blue as the letter. Inside is another letter and a Polaroid of him and Castiel at the county fair in Lawrence years ago, before the Mark, before Gadreel and Metatron and Heaven came raining down on their doorstep. They looked happy, arms around the others waist, Sam snickering at them behind the camera. He can still feel the warmth of Castiel’s hand against his waist. His stomach drops at the memory.

The letter simply reads, ‘ _You smelled nice when you hugged me._ ’ Of _course_ he would say that.

The bedroom is next on his list, and he moves the dresser out of the way before he grabs the second envelope, ripping it open. Another letter falls out, along with a gold ring. He nearly swallows his tongue. ‘ _You thought you lost your mother’s wedding ring last week, but I found it the day after we started looking. I didn’t have the chance to give it to you in person._ ’

He scoots up to the foot of his bed and bites his knuckle again, twirling the small gold band between his fingers. The tears flow, unbidden, throat tight and burning. _He remembered_ , he thinks to himself, body wracked in shivers. The ring barely fits on his finger; he needs to find a chain to loop it to.

He remembered.

 

A bouquet of yellow roses shows up on the doorstep of his white-walled home on the second anniversary, a red envelope shoved within the arrangement with that same scrawl. He remembered to drive to Lebanon the day before Valentine's and change the address, just so that poor boy didn't have to wind his way through town and knock on the door of a decrepit building only to find no one there. He lives in peace now, only taking hunts he knows other hunters can’t handle, working his days away between the local auto shop and Tuesday and Thursday nights at the community college, mostly at Sam’s insistence. He’s the oldest person in his classes, but no one cares. It’s a new world he isn’t entirely used to.

He sets the flowers in a bee-adorned vase – he thinks Castiel would have loved it – and sets out to read the letter at the bar, one hand in his lap and the other holding the pink sheet.

> _Dean_
> 
> _Another year should have passed by now, if you’re still keeping track. I understand your coping mechanisms aren’t the smartest in the world, but please don't drink yourself into a coma. I would hate to see you here too early. You still have more letters to read._
> 
> _Do you know what the color of roses mean? Last year I sent you blue ones. They’re an artificial color, but they’re flowers all the same. They represent the impossible. I would say that we were impossible, wouldn't you? You never believed in Angels before me – yet you still prayed to me whenever you needed me. Albeit to fight your battles, but there were some instances where you wanted to see me just because. I liked those moments._
> 
> _I sent you yellow roses this year. They represent friendship and new beginnings, and a promise of remembrance. I slipped a CD into the envelope. Listen to track ten._
> 
> _Please remember me fondly._
> 
> _Castiel_

He doesn't drink much anymore. In the corner of his bedroom is a CD player he picked up at a thrift shop; he slides the disc into the reader and adjusts the track setting before he goes to sit on his bed – the only thing he took with him from the bunker aside from his arsenal and a lamp – and stares up at the ceiling, letting the sounds of the guitar wash over him, a male’s voice breaking over the slow rhythm.

He knows [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HK0VOeau_gs) – how Castiel knew of it, he doesn't even begin to fathom. He doesn't listen to country, but it was all over the airwaves when it was first released, breaking through into the hot one hundred for weeks that year. It wasn't relevant until now, until he felt every lyric, every word in his soul. Love doesn't make sense to him, but the pressure in his chest, the wetness streaking from his eyes into his hairline, the tightness in his throat – it feels like grief, like affection. Like he lost the one thing he loved most in life, and he didn't even know it.

By some miracle, he’s sober when he arrives for work an hour later. When he gets home, he cries himself to sleep with an empty bottle of Jack on the nightstand and a rose crumpled in his grip.

 

He actually has friends now; the thought is was an impossibility three years ago. He goes out to lunch and dinner with guys from the garage, he’s dragged to a classmate’s bachelorette party at a strip club, he even has a birthday party. Against his will, of course; it’s the closest he’s come to crying in front of strangers since the days after the incident. He’s never had a party he could remember, never had the opportunity to open gifts that weren’t wrapped in last week’s newspaper or not at all. Some are expensive, some have money inside the cards. There’s a cake. Sam even flew in at the last minute with his new girlfriend.

It’s the happiest he’s been in a long while.

Castiel would have loved it.

Pink flowers await him the morning of the holiday, covered in a thin blanket of snow and ice. He takes them inside and brushes them off over the sink, taking out the dusty vase from the pantry and setting them up in the front window. His heart aches – caught up in the artificial bliss of his life, he forgot that he was still receiving gifts from the beyond. The letter, yellow today, sits on the bar, untouched. He doesn’t read it until he returns from the shop later that afternoon, sitting in bed with the blankets wrapped around him and the only light source being that of the fading sun filtering in through the blinds.

It’s quiet.

> _Dean_
> 
> _I miss you. By the time you read this, it’ll have been three years. I hope in that time you’ve progressed somewhat and come to terms with yourself and me. If not, then it’s time you do. I want you to do something for me tonight. I want you to pray to me, I want you to say what you wanted to, what you never got the chance to. I’ll be the only one listening, I assure you. I want to hear your voice again._
> 
> _Thinking of you,_
> 
> _Castiel_

It takes him another hour to muster up the courage to sit up and bow his head in bed, steepling his fingers against his forehead with his eyes closed. He didn’t do this in the past. Never with closed eyes, never not looking heavenward like he expected something to fall into his lap. Nothing is coming for him now – no one is listening, he figures. Where do Angels go when they die?

“Hey, uh…” he starts, clearing his throat. “Hey, Cas, it’s… I just got your letter. How’re you gonna keep this up for ten years?” He laughs despite himself, biting back the knot in his throat. “Dunno if I can hold on that long, man. It kinda really _sucks_ without you here. I’m… I’m in school again, tryin’ to get my life straightened out. Buncha friends threw me a big party a few weeks ago, ‘n me and Sammy got each other actual Christmas presents last year. You believe that? You ever think we’d make it here?”

He sniffles, laughing into his palms. This is stupid. “You don’t know what you’re missin’ out on, man. We coulda… We coulda really had somethin’ goin’ here. Fuck, we almost had it, Cas, we were _right there._ There had to’ve been a way to get your grace back, right? Metadouche even said so, we _had_ it! And you had to go’n pull that, had to bring my ass back from the fire, didn’t you?” He’s shaking, he knows – he can’t help it. “You coulda lived. I coulda—I coulda kept myself in line, you coulda been there. ‘N you just up and _died_ and… I didn’t want it, man. I didn’t want your grace, I didn’t wanna be fixed. I wanted _you_ there, alright?”

He looks to the ceiling, the white roof staring back down at him. “Is that what you wanted me to say? Say that I _loved_ you and I never got to tell you? Well, I’m tellin’ you now!” he shouts it to no one, throat going raw with it, with his unheard confession. “I _love_ you, you pain in my _ass._ And if you’re up there, just… give me some sorta sign, will you?” He looks to his palms. “Please, just… let me know you’re still here.”

No answer comes. He doesn’t sleep that night, instead laying in a state of catatonia on the couch to the tune of twenty-four hour infomercials, praying nonstop for someone, some _thing_ to erase every single memory he ever had of him.

 

He’s dragged to a concert the night before the fourth letter, the daughter of one of his professor’s taking him to see a woman he’s never heard of before. “She sings bluegrass,” she tells him, her hand in his. She’s only younger than him by a few years, but she reminds him so much of Lisa, of that life he had and left. Whether she likes him or if she’s only complying with her mother’s wishes, he doesn’t know. “Mom’s tired of you looking so down this last year. What’s got you in such a rut?”

They’re seated and waiting along the side bar in the auditorium before he speaks again, voice somber. “My… best friend died around this time a few years ago.” He shrugs off her condolences, staring out at the stage and the people filing into their seats. “He sends me flowers.”

“What, like a ghost?” She looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

He laughs. “No, he, uh… We knew he was dying, so he arranged to have flowers delivered to me for the next few years on Valentine's.”

She smiles, touched. “Sound’s like he really loved you.”

He doesn't get a chance to answer – screaming starts from the pit below, the backup band walking on stage to take their instruments, ranging from a variety of string instruments to a few woodwinds. The singer follows after and waves, talks to the crowd before launching into her first song, something to draw the crowd into the music and get everyone excited. He can’t find it in him to cheer or clap whenever it ends, much unlike his friend, who joins majority of the upper section of the auditorium in a standing ovation.

It’s a good song, he admits. Not something he would normally be into, but the woman’s voice is soothing, calming something ragged and frayed in his heart. The [second song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=je2N0vXHFlo) is slower, and he actually spends time listening to the lyrics, something about longing to fly like the Angel’s do. He doesn't expect the lone tear that escapes from his eye; no one around him is paying much attention, some more emotional than the others, some mouthing along to the lyrics. He claps when the song ends, a heaviness in his chest he thought he had escaped long ago.

She drives him home afterwards, kissing his cheek on his way out of her Mercedes. She’s nice. If she asked again, he would even consider meeting up for lunch sometime, preferably without her mother’s approval. White roses are shoved in his newspaper box the following morning, the poor delivery guy probably sick of running back and forth from Lebanon every holiday; he really needs to leave them a bigger tip. How much had Castiel paid them, anyway? Enough for them to deliver to Alaska if he moved far enough away? He hoped not.

The note inside is stained around one edge and smells of old coffee and incense, the entire inside of the envelope reeking of it. It’s comforting in an odd way – it smells like him, the few days before he passed. Too much coffee trying to stay awake, the spices to keep him alert while the last of his grace burnt out. It’s too painful of a memory. He’s tempted to burn it, but keeps it in the box along with the other letters. He still reads them from time to time, when he hits his lowest and not even Sam’s words can comfort him. He shouldn't cling to them, he knows, but it’s the only tangible part of Castiel that he has left, the only proof he has that he existed.

> _Dean_
> 
> _White roses are a symbol of purity, did you know? You probably did – white is a typical color associated with cleanliness and youth. But to me, it reminds me of the vibrancy of your soul. It’s a beautiful thing, even after the Mark tainted it. I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself and believe me when I say that you’re a better man than that. You’re a better man than anyone I’ve ever known. And you’re as beautiful as the roses you undoubtedly have set up somewhere. I’d love to see them._
> 
> _I wish I had more to give you, Dean. You’re worth more than the words I write or the paper they’re printed on. You’re worth more than your faults and your past, you’re worth more than the future you think you're headed towards. I want you to know that. I want you to take these words to heart and believe them, even when you yourself don't think so._
> 
> _There’s so many words I want to say to you, but I’ll settle for the next time we meet. I don’t know when or where, but I’ll wait for you._
> 
> _Stay strong._
> 
> _Castiel_

For the first time since the flowers started coming, he doesn’t drink. He instead spends the night penning what he dubs the world’s sappiest letter and shoves it into a spare envelope, licking it closed and placing it beneath a statue of the empire state building in the study.

 

He’s sick the next anniversary. Appendicitis, the doctors say after the anesthesia wears off and he’s wheeled into a vacant room. The last he remembered, he was pulling a double shift with Rob at the shop with what he suspected was a typical stomachache. The next, he was half conscious in an ambulance with a doctor asking him what hurt. He hurts in new ways, but none life threatening. He sleeps through the night with the aid of morphine, and receives three bouquets of flowers when he wakes up the following morning, carnations and tulips and other things he doesn't even know the name of.

The roses are red.

“Someone brought them by while you were sleeping, I assume it was a neighbor,” his nurse says while he spoon-feeds himself Jell-O – the only decent thing on their menu that doesn't taste like cardboard. She’s busy putting them in water by the sink. He takes a rose before she arranges them, reading over the teal-colored paper in his other hand. “Who’s it from?” she asks.

He takes a moment to answer, chewing his lip. “My—boyfriend.” He explains the situation, and she gives him a look somewhere between sympathy and amazement. “He is— _was_ a sap. Never thought he was really up to the whole holiday tradition thing.”

“It was good you had the time you had together,” she offers, patting his foot. “I’d kill for _my_ boyfriend to be that sweet on me.”

He smiles as she leaves. The rose in his fingers is soft. For once, he knows what the color means.

> _Dean_
> 
> _I should have admitted it to you yesterday when we were in the library. I think that’s why Sam left us alone. I asked him for his blessing. I wanted to tell you that, despite everything, despite our past and grievances and the atrocities we’ve committed in each other’s name, I still love you. From the day you were born. Your mother was right to tell you that Angels were watching over you. I never left your side for the first few years. You used to play with my feathers when your parents were sleeping. Your handprint is still imprinted on the longest one, I want you to know that._
> 
> _I know you know what red means, so I want you to take care of these. I don’t know exactly where you are or what you’re doing now, but I want you to be careful. I want you to live life how you wanted to, I want you to live with my memory in your heart. I want you to know that even in death, I’m still watching over you, and I’ll never stop._
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Castiel_

The nurse that comes in an hour later doesn't speak a word when she sees him with red-rimmed eyes; he hugs her when she asks if it’s okay, and doesn't let go until the tears stop and the ache in his heart subsides to a dull throb.

 

There are many ways Dean expected to die. In the heat of battle with Sam at his side, a heart attack from too much diner food in his life, accidently shooting himself in something vital while cleaning his guns. Not by being T-boned in the middle of an intersection when he had the right of way. The night shift ran too long again, he should have been home hours ago, waiting for the arrival of his only source of pure joy in life. He survives the first few seconds after the Impala comes to a stop, completely totaled and caved in, and then wakes up along the roadside in Kansas City, the purple, starry sky spiraling above him, meteors streaking by. The trees rustle in the breeze, obscured in the dark. The road is lit by moonlight.

He knows this place – he knows where he is.

And before him stands the proof, trenchcoat and messy hair and all, staring back at him with wet eyes and hands shaking at his sides. “Are you real?” Dean asks, breath shuddering with every exhale, quick enough to be hyperventilating. The pain in his physical body is gone, replaced by a phantom ache. Before him, Castiel nods, mouth opening to say something, anything. He doesn't get the words out – Dean hugs him tight to his chest, fingers wringing in the worn fabric, Castiel’s tearing at the back of his shirt, face pressed to his neck.

“We had a date,” Castiel says, before everything goes to Hell and he begins to sob, uncontrollable. “You’re here too soon,” the Angel mouths against his skin, wetness soaking into his shirt. “You weren’t supposed to be here for another four years.”

“Tell that to the driver,” Dean laughs. His emotions are a wreck – he doesn't know where the anguish stops and the excitement begins. All he knows is that he’s in Heaven, and Castiel is there. Castiel is in his arms again. Hysteric and threatening to tear his shirt to shreds, but there. Dean buries his face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him. “Kinda pissed I didn't get your letter this year.”

“It was a good one, too,” Castiel cries. They stand there for a period, familiarizing themselves with the feel, the scent of one another. He still can’t believe it. Castiel isn’t trapped in purgatory somewhere, he’s not wading in some indeterminate space waiting for the universe to die out. He might not even be an Angel. But he’s there, and he feels real. “They were lavender. You would have loved them.”

“You can tell me about ‘em, then.” He pulls back far enough to rest their foreheads together, ignoring the state of Castiel’s face, wracked in agony and wet with tears and snot. He wipes dry one eye, kissing over the thin skin there. Castiel hiccups. “This my heaven?”

He shakes his head. “It’s mine. Yours is next door.” He takes Dean’s hand, leaving a kiss on his lips, and it’s another few minutes before they pull away, settling for just the feel of their skin so close, so warm to the touch. “Would you like to see?”

Later, he’ll worry about what Sam is doing, if he’s heard the news. If he’s flown back to Kansas to take care of the funeral plans, if he’s found the will and the deed to the home he left in his sock drawer next to the letters. If his friends from the university have found out. If the shop knows he’s gone. But for now, he clutches Castiel’s hand tight and nods, kissing him again, soft, before turning back towards the road. “Come home with me, Cas.”

So he does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, I'm so, _so_ sorry and I hope you go to the pet store and play with the puppies until the sad thoughts go away. Legit though, I saw a news story this morning about this woman who's husband died and he has a flower shop deliver her flowers for valentine's day every year for the rest of her life, and I got really sappy thoughts. I'm sorry. I hurt just as bad as you do.
> 
> Additionally, I listened to Lee Ann Womack's new album "The Way I'm Livin'" recently, and I was looking for an excuse to write something about it. Mentioned is the song "Prelude: Fly" and the title is from the song "When I Come Around." That entire album is very destiel-y and I love it. Also mentioned is Tim McGraw's "Please Remember Me" because I'm a big sap.
> 
> Also, I don't normally write in third person present, so this was...weird to try. New style tests yay~.
> 
> In other news, I'm so so _so_ sorry I haven't updated White Lightning, and this is honestly why I don't like posting WIP fics. I've been in a bad place lately and I caught the flu last week, so I'm just now getting around to writing it again. I have one scene left for this chapter, so it _should_ be up soon. I'm also starting work on planning my DCBB, so hopefully y'all'll have that to look forward to this fall too! 
> 
> For reference, [here](http://www.rkdn.org/roses/colors.asp) are the colors of roses and their meanings. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
